


Sacrifice

by Efstitt



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Author is an angry person, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheaper than Therapy, Snyder runs a fight club, So maybe Jack and Mayer have a history - Freeform, The Refuge (Newsies), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29792016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Efstitt/pseuds/Efstitt
Summary: Jack finally comes to dinner at the Jacobs’ apartment. He sees someone he didn’t expect to see, and angst ensues. Turns out Jack and Mayer have known each other pretty well, but at the same time don't know that they know each other.
Comments: 56
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

How Jack had the energy to carry Les piggyback up four flights of stairs to the Jacobs’ apartment at the end of the day, Davey would never know. What Jack knew was that Les helped keep him warm, especially after a cold, rainy day like this one. Warm wet was better than cold wet.

“You’re sure about this?” Jack asked for the thirty-eighth time, calling up the stairs to Davey. Davey didn’t even bother to answer by now. Jack kept going and finally followed Davey down the hall to what must be their door.

“Mama! We’re home!” Davey called, unlocking the door. He pulled off his cap and got his wet coat off as Jack stood in the hall, gently lowering Les from his back. Les squeezed around Jack and likewise pulled off his wet things. Davey held out his hand to Les and took their coats and hats to the rack by the stove to dry, greeting his mother with a hug. 

“Mama, we brought Jack, like you wanted,” Davey started in, turning to introduce Jack, and then glancing around quickly until he noticed Jack still standing in the hall. “You coming?” he called to Jack. “You came all this way, it’s just one more step.”

Jack shoved his frozen hands in his pockets and stepped stiffly into the apartment, wincing a little when Les squeezed around him again and slammed the door shut behind him. “Uh, hey,” he muttered. “How you doin’.” He didn’t miss the brief look Mrs. Jacobs gave Davey that clearly said Jack had already messed up.

“I, uh, I gotta get going, Dave, so I’ll see ya,” Jack said, barely audible. He backed toward the door, telling himself he hadn’t nearly sat at their table, or nearly dried out a little faster than usual in their warm apartment.

“No!” Les cried, pulling at Jack’s arm. “You promised! You said you’d stay! Mama, make him!”

By this time, Mrs. Jacobs had come across the room, her arm extended to usher him further into the apartment. “Come on in, Jack. Come dry out, hm? It’s so nice to finally meet you.” He let her touch the torn sleeve of his shirt and wished it was clean like Dave’s. He managed half a smile and took a step forward, daring to take off his cap like he was going to stay.

“David?!” Jack stopped at the sound of Mr. Jacobs’ voice coming from the bedroom directly across from him. “How was your day? Did I hear something about Jack finally coming?”

Davey grinned at Jack. “Yes, Papa! He’s here! You need help getting up?” Davey walked over to the bedroom door and peered in. “Let me help.” He went in briefly and Jack kept his eyes trained on the doorway. He squeezed his cap and felt water run through his fingers and drip onto the floor. An uneven gait slid across the bedroom floorboards, and Davey reappeared, supporting his father, a slightly stooped figure with wiry graying hair. 

Jack stared for what seemed like an eternity as his world ground to a halt, and what feeling had come back in his hands left him once again. He staggered backwards and yanked his cap back on as he gaped at Mr. Jacobs. He whirled back toward the door, but couldn’t get very far with Les standing there, and both of them tumbled to the floor. Jack flipped himself onto his back to make sure he knew where Mr. Jacobs was, and scrambled on his hands and heels over Les as fast as he could, Les’ yelps notwithstanding. People were talking, talking to him, coming at him, and he launched himself at the door. He fled down the stairs, leaping two or three at a time, barely keeping his balance, before flying back out into the rain turned sleet.


	2. Castle Garden

1889

  
Jack’s head snapped back and he smashed into the brick wall next to him. A searing pain opened on his chin. He reached up and drew his hand away, sticky with blood.

“Don’t come back until you get what I told you, unless you want more,” Maggie threatened, towering over him, her hand raised. Her unwashed stench matched Jack’s, with the added smell of whiskey. “I’m sick of you coming up short. Got it?”

Jack nodded, putting his ragged sleeve up against his chin with one hand and wiping away tears with the other. He gulped as he watched her straighten up and tuck her gray hairs back under her kerchief.

She sucked at her partially-toothed gums and pointed a filthy finger at him. “Get going, or the new boy is getting your whole bed and dinner tonight.” Jack’s eyes widened in fear at the prospect of being back out on the street now that the nights were getting colder—just last night he’d brought back the boy called Racetrack, and he had been nice to whisper to in their bunk. He didn’t want to lose his new friend so quickly, that was for sure. He liked not being the youngest boy all by himself now, since Race seemed to be about his own age.

Jack staggered out of the alley and eventually made his way to the immigrant crowds coming from Castle Garden. Easy pickings, they always said. Don’t know much English, willing to get help from anyone, even a little kid, and they likely got at least a little money in their pockets to get started on. 

As his head cleared, Jack dodged in and out of the shuffling families trying to find their way, and flitted his hands in and out of a dozen pockets before snagging a wad of bills. Quickly he shoved the wad into his pocket, and moved on. He got another good snag, and he was sure he had enough. He dabbed at his chin again, and smeared at his face to get the last of the tears off. One last glance around, and he stopped cold. Papa? The man six feet away had Jack’s same dark curls, and the gait seemed about right, at least from Jack’s vantage point.

He raced over and grabbed the man’s hand. “Papa!” he shouted. “It’s me!” He grinned up at him until the man looked down, startled. It wasn’t his father, not by a long shot. The face was narrower, the dark brown eyes kinder, and he clearly didn’t recognize Jack. The man’s eyebrows drew together in concern as he took in Jack’s face, but was quickly replaced with one of fear.

The man shook him off and looked around, panicked. “Dawid!” the man called sharply. “Dawid?!”

A slightly taller boy ran up to him and took his hand, speaking a language Jack didn’t recognize. The man’s eyes closed in relief and he tightened his grip on his son’s hand. Jack stumbled back, jostled by the crowd, and watched. A streak of jealousy ripped through him as the father cupped Dawid’s face and smiled before they turned to walk in the other direction. Jack felt more tears build up and drip down his face, and he gave up wiping them away. He watched the man follow his son to a cart where a smiling woman waited, and felt a white hot heat rise up in him as the woman hugged them both.

“I hate you!” Jack shouted, stamping his bare foot at them. No one noticed or heard him, one small boy in the teeming crowd. “I hate you!”

Jack angrily turned away from them and plowed back into the river of people, stopping only when he saw Race working the crowd not too far away. Race winked at him and motioned with his head for Jack to wait around the nearby corner. Sniffling, Jack gave him a wave and headed over there to wait. He slumped down to the ground and wiped his nose on his sleeve, hoping Race wouldn’t be too long. Sure enough, Race came sauntering over with a smug look on his face and slid down next to Jack.

“Guess what,” Race said, barely able to contain himself.

“What,” Jack muttered back.

“I got enough for Maggie and I got a gold watch,” Race whispered, his eyes sparkling. “We can get some boots and jackets, you and me. Right now.”

Jack lifted his head and smiled, wincing at the throbbing on his chin. “Yeah?”

Race nodded smartly. “Yeah. Let’s go.” He put his arm around Jack. “You and me don’t need nobody, right?”

“Right.” Jack let Race pull him up, and off they went together.


	3. The Pushcart

Jack laid awake, listening hard since it was his turn to keep watch, and kept his hands tight on the lapels of Race’s coat as Race slept. Another floorboard creaked, and Jack sucked in his breath. It had been four days since the bigger boys last tried to take their coats, a feat they’d tried every few days ever since Race had stolen the gold watch and gotten himself and Jack outfitted for winter. The coats had been too nice, as Jack and Race soon discovered. Even after a couple of months of bigger kids pulling at them, ripping the seams and pulling at the buttons, the coats were still in better shape than most, and still worth plenty.

Jack shook Race to get him awake, and just in time, as he felt the hands of boys twice his age yank him out of bed. Jack kicked and yelled as hard as he could, as usual, but something was off this time. He could hear Race grunting and twisting to try to escape, but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Jack’s head smacked against the floor, and he lay there, stunned, and could only reach feebly for his coat as the older boys took it off, gleeful at their success.

“Get the boots next, boys!” he heard someone shout. Jack kicked, and kicked hard, somehow able to move himself away. Race was suddenly there by his side and grabbed for him, pulling him up. Jack felt a heavy hand swipe down his back, but he didn’t turn to look. He grabbed back at Race and they managed to get away just enough to get to the door.

”Run!” Race gasped into his ear, and they took off, hoping the laughter and jeers coming from behind them would be the last they would hear from Maggie’s, ever.

#  
  


Race scanned the busy street. “Gotta find someone having an argument,” he said to Jack. “Then they’s distracted.” Jack nodded in agreement, hoping for better luck today. It was Race’s day to wear the coat remaining between the two of them, but they couldn’t keep going like this. Jack’s teeth chattered, and he jumped in place, rubbing his arms and taking in the shouts from the pushcarts that filled the street in front of them. His ears hurt whenever the wind swept around the corner, no matter how much he rubbed at them.

“There,” said Race, pointing with his chin. “Look there.” Jack saw what he meant, and exchanged a knowing look with Race.

“You distracting or you taking,” Jack asked. He blinked hard as another gust of wind hit them. It didn’t matter to him which role Race took—Race was good at both.

“Distracting,” said Race. “You just slip it on and can’t no one tell if you stole it or not.” Jack nodded. That made sense.

“Coats! Pants!” yelled the boy selling at the pushcart with his father. “Good clothes! Good prices!” His father was talking with a sour-faced man, using both his voice and his hands, and wasn’t paying any attention to his pushcart. Race and Jack strolled across the street and lingered a short distance to gauge the situation, and pretended to be interested in the tin cups and plates for sale at the cart they stood in front of. The men’s voices rose, which was good. Jack’s stomach roared and he almost called off this idea in favor of scouting out some carts with food, but the wind cut at his face again, making his eyes water. He wiped the tears from his eyes and watched the argument escalate.

”Dawid,” the man called. “Come.” He motioned for his son to come closer, and he pointed at the sour-faced man, obviously asking the boy to translate. Jack tried to see this boy more clearly through his watering eyes, but lots of boys were named David or something close to it. 

David stood by his father and listened to him, his back to Jack. He faced the angry man his father had been speaking to, and took in a breath. “We have money. We sell everything today, we have money for rent,” he told the man. “Tonight.”

His father looked hopefully at the sour man. Jack elbowed Race and they snuck closer to the cart just as the man started yelling again and David started translating again. The cart didn’t have coats as nice as what Race had gotten them, but they were a lot better than nothing. Race went to the other side of the cart and started fingering some patched up pants, just in case the argument stopped sooner than expected.

“We have it,” David said, more loudly. “My father said we stay and we sell today and tonight. We have money tonight.”

Jack scouted out the jackets as best he could, and finally gave up and quickly reached for the one closest to him. No sooner had he slipped an arm into the sleeve, oh, the warm sleeve, than he was lifted by the hair and had his other arm twisted behind his back.

“You’re paying for that, ain’t you?” a voice asked loudly. Jack squirmed, to no avail, and found himself pushed right in front of David’s father. The father turned from his argument and looked at Jack, puzzled, before his eyes widened at the sight of the cop. Jack’s eyes widened at the sight of the man from Castle Garden. Not his papa.

“Look what I caught,” said the cop, giving Jack another shove. “Caught him red-handed, mister. You want me to take him in?”

Jack gulped and pulled hard to try to escape the iron grip of the cop until David’s father put up his hand to signal Jack to stop struggling. Jack peered up at him with hope, and David’s father reached toward the scar on his chin. He didn’t touch it, but he looked closely at Jack’s face, and his eyes softened. 

Jack risked a quick look at Race, who snatched a pair of pants. “Got ‘em!” Race shouted.

“Hey!” shouted the cop. “Stop!” He took a step forward, dragging Jack with him, before stopping, realizing he still had a hold of Jack.

David, still facing away from his father and Jack, switched his attention from the sour man to Race and pushed toward Race. Race smirked and instantly fled down the street away from Jack, and David gave chase. Jack tried to watch but there were too many people in the way, but he knew there was no way this David would catch Race. No one could catch him.

“Well?!” shouted the sour man. “You selling your stuff or giving it away? I want my money!”

David’s father pulled in his lips and closed his eyes. He opened his eyes and held out his hand to Jack. “Coat,” he said softly. The cop pulled the coat off of Jack’s arm and handed it back.

“Off to the Refuge with you,” the cop grinned, shaking Jack. “A nice report for me to file for the day. Glad to be of service, sir.”

David’s father smiled back a little, his face blank of understanding as he bowed slightly toward the cop in a silent gesture of goodwill. Jack started struggling again—he had heard lots of the other boys talking about the Refuge and knew he did not want to go there. It was worse than Maggie’s, the older boys had said, their eyes lighting up as Jack tried not to wet himself listening to their stories. Maggie’s a goddam dream girl, they said, showing off their scars and enjoying the sight of blood draining from Jack’s face. His heart pounded and he pulled again, succeeding only in tearing his shirt even more.

Jack tried again to wrench his arm as the cop pulled him away. “No! I won’t! I didn’t do nothing!”

David’s father watched them with growing shock registering on his face, but he stayed at his cart, keeping half of his attention on two women who had stopped to look at his merchandise.

“I hate you!” Jack shouted back at him. His voice disappeared into the clamor of the street as the cop dragged him along. “I hate you!”


	4. The Alley

A Few Years Later

  
Jack pushed back through the line and charged the counter, his face red hot. “You gave me ninety-five, Morris! Gimme my other five!” 

Morris snickered. “You saying I’m cheating?”

Jack grabbed the bars. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Morris’ face matched Jack’s in redness as the newsies started to laugh at him. “Beat it, Kelly.”

“Gimme my five or come out and count ‘em. Unless you can’t count that high ...” Jack taunted. He was ready, oh, he was ready. He hadn’t had a good fight in probably five days. Tossing his bag to the ground, he motioned for Morris to come out. “Let’s go. Less you’s scared.”

The other newsies all watched Morris, the level of murmuring rising steadily and quickly. The start of this particular late fall day promised a decent amount of excitement—Jack Kelly always put on a good show. Three bouts in the Refuge over the past few years had exposed Jack as the best fighter his age and maybe even older, depending on who you asked, and Jack liked nothing better than to prove it again and again. Jack wouldn’t say he was the best, either, necessarily. He’d say he just got tired of getting his ass kicked by the bigger boys in the Refuge, and decided to change things. He got so good even Snyder had noticed and set up fights for the entertainment of his guests. The thing was, while Jack was a good fighter, he didn’t always listen. He liked winning better.

_I lost money on you, Kelly, Snyder’s voice snarled. The guards propped Jack up in front of Snyder’s desk. You were supposed to lose, I told you that. Jack knew that—two days of no rations or sleep before the fight had reminded him. You made me look like a fool, Kelly. Jack had rolled his head forward at that. I like to win, Snyder. So do I, Kelly. If you’d a listened, you’d be out next week. Looks like you just got yourself three more months._

Morris glared at the newsies and stormed out from behind the counter. “You’re on.”

Jack grinned. Morris wasn’t bad, but Jack was better. Jack landed several good hits and took a few, including the last one that spun him around and landed him face-first on the ground. The cheering dulled a little. Shaking his head, Jack spat out a mouthful of blood and staggered to his feet again as the cheering resumed. His vision was a little blurred, but he could see Morris well enough to smack him around until Morris sprawled at his feet and surrendered. Jack spat again, and left him there to collect his five papes.

#

Jack waited for Race at their usual corner at the end of the day. Jack was almost always there first, even if he sold twice as many papes as Race ever did, although Race probably made more money at the racetrack. He grabbed the strap of his newsie bag and propped the sole of his left foot up on the wall, watching the setting sun glow on the upper stories of the buildings on the block. Bored, he examined his knuckles and flexed his right hand before reaching up to probe his newly blackened eye. Nothing that wouldn’t heal pretty soon.

Hearing footsteps come up behind him in the alley, he squinted into the dim light and shouted, “Got a new cigar for me, Racer? I earned it today!”

“No, ya didn’t,” came back the familiar voice of Morris Delancey. Oscar darted ahead and grabbed Jack before he could run, and Jack knew this wouldn’t end so good. Not as good as this morning, anyway. And it didn’t.

#

“Hey, you are okay?” a man’s voice asked quietly. Jack blinked his eyes slowly and jerked back against the brick wall. “You are hurt.”

Jack scrambled away and tried to clear his head. “‘M fine. Lea’ me ‘lone.” Where was Race? He saw the silhouette of the man who had spoken. Not a big guy, not coming at him. Jack stopped moving.

“Let me help.” The man gestured for him to follow him out of the alley and into the dim glow of the streetlight. Jack looked him over once more, taken for a moment by the man’s build and gait. Not his papa. Jack’s stomach sank, his head throbbed, but he followed for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

The man smiled at him and tilted Jack’s face toward the light. His mouth dropped open at the sight of the scar on Jack’s jaw, and he shook his head, smiling even more as he took a closer look at Jack. “I know you,” he said. “Come home. We will help.”

Jack stopped and scowled. This man had never helped him. Not once. Jack had learned to take care of himself, thanks. Race could patch him up just as good, he was pretty sure. Jack lifted his chin. “Leave me alone. I don’t need nothing.”

The man reached for him. “Please. I help you.”

Jack pushed at him, running his hand under his nose and bracing his feet, if a little unsteadily. “I said I’m good.”

He watched the man’s hands carefully as the man reached into his pocket. “You need money. Doctor? Food?” The man held out some bills to Jack.

“I got money.” Jack reached into his own pockets, wincing at the realization that they were empty. “Go away. I don’t need nothing.”

The man pushed the bills at him again, and again Jack shoved back at him. “Leave me alone, I said!” he shouted. Nothing good had ever happened with this guy.

“Take money!” the man shouted. “I leave you alone!”

A whistle sounded from the corner and Jack froze. Instinctively, he grabbed the money and took off down the alley, only to lose his balance and crash against the wall. He heard shouting behind him and tried to get up, but he couldn’t tell which way was up, and didn’t understand he was upright until the cop had him cuffed and dragged back out of the alley. The man was shouting still, but Jack couldn’t make out anything he was saying. It wasn’t English, or was it? The cop didn’t seem to care, and all Jack knew was that Snyder would expect to be making money betting on him again.


	5. The Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know it’s bad with a title like that. I’m kind of angry these days, so...

Mayer slowly pulled his battered cart up to the tall gates. He was proud to be this successful, and to have brought enough business to his boss to have to make deliveries after hours, but he did wish this Mr. Snyder had been a little more polite. But, no matter. He paid well and appreciated good tailoring. Mayer came to a stop and double checked the address. This was it. It was no home, though. Well, who was he to judge where the man wanted his clothes delivered. He rang the bell and waited.

At long last, a guard of some kind came to the gate and let him in, saying Mr. Snyder was eager to see him. Well, Mayer was eager to see him too, then. He followed the guard in and set his cart by the door, and waited as instructed to be let inside. The Refuge, he read on the sign over the door. This was not a word he had learned yet. But clearly many people lived here, or Mr. Snyder lived in a warehouse? Again, who was he to judge.

Another guard finally came to let him in, right as his arms started to burn with the weight of the clothes he held. Rather bleak inside, but then they turned into the office space of Mr. Snyder, and Mayer finally saw the connection between the clothes he had made and the space they would be worn in.

“Ah, Mr. Jacobs, welcome!” thundered Snyder. He gestured for Mayer to put the clothes on the nearby sofa. “Wonderful.” He fingered the jacket on top of the pile. “Shall I try one on?”

“Please,” urged Mayer, “please.” He helped Snyder off with his old jacket and held the new one up, slipping it over Snyder’s shoulders with a practiced grace. “How does it feel?”

“This is perfect,” smiled Snyder. He gestured for Mayer to sit in the chair by his desk. “Let me pay you the balance.” Mayer tried not to look too eager, but this one payment would make Esther so proud of him, and his success. If Snyder had friends who would place orders like these, why, Mayer could move them to a better apartment, something his Esther could be proud to call her home. He could have his own store, instead of being an assistant. Dawid could go to a better school. Les would never know anything different than the very best education.

Snyder paused, hand in his desk. He smiled again, his teeth glittering. “I’m having some friends over this evening. Perhaps you’d like to meet them? They might give you quite a bit of business. Can you stay?”

“Stay? Yes, I can stay,” said Mayer, not quite believing he had understood correctly. “You show them my clothes?” 

Snyder chuckled. “Of course. Let’s go get settled, hm? I have it all arranged. You look like you could use some entertainment.” Snyder stood and admired himself in the mirror in the corner of the room before ushering Mayer through the door and down the hall. The room they stopped in was a strange one. Mayer gaped at the long wooden benches and tables shoved out of the way, and the rows of padded chairs ringing an open space. Drinks were set up nearby, and men smoking cigars had already made themselves at home with their filled glasses. Snyder walked Mayer around with introductions, and soon Mayer found himself seated with a drink and cigar of his own. Well, he was not one to turn down luxuries like this, although Esther might have a word or two to say about it.

He smiled at the men nearby, trying his best to keep up with the conversations, but soon found it was going by too fast. They didn’t seem to mind, and had admired the jacket Snyder had shown off, so Mayer felt good that more business might be coming his way. He looked around more closely, noting the stains and chalked outline on the wooden floor in front of him. Snyder soon stood in front of them all and spoke, but Mayer did not quite follow what he was saying other than it was a welcome and an event was about to start.

The men around him whistled and cheered and Mayer followed their attention to the door, where a boy of about sixteen was being led out to the square. He was handcuffed, and Mayer’s stomach turned cold. He prayed this was not what he thought it would be. The door opened a second time and Mayer nearly vomited. It was the boy. The boy who he’d gotten arrested twice now, who had broken Mayer’s heart several months ago. The handcuffs clinked behind the boy’s back and Mayer’s eyes widened at the size difference between the boys, although the smaller boy did not seem fazed.

The boy turned around for the handcuffs to be removed and brought his wrists around front to rub them. The guard who brought him in yanked off the boy’s unbuttoned shirt, leaving him in a only ragged pair of short pants. His left hand had a dingy bandage wrapped around the palm, and he had a barely healed cut above his left eye. Mayer watched him roll his shoulder and size up his opponent. Before Mayer knew it, a bell clanged from out of nowhere, and the boys started circling each other.

Mayer had never cared for boxing. Life was violent enough without it. But he understood how he must fit in to gain the business of these men. Still, he could not bring himself to cheer or laugh like they did as the boys fought and fell and bled. He silently prayed for both of them, but especially for the smaller boy. He could not imagine his Dawid being forced to do this—his Dawid who was at home, studying. His tiny Les, playing with the little blocks with Hebrew letters on them.

The older boy in the ring fell and skidded to Mayer’s feet, and the younger boy towered over him, breathing hard and smiling hard despite the blood coming from his mouth. He glanced briefly at Mayer, and Mayer held his gaze. The boy’s eyes narrowed with hatred, with recognition and cold hatred. After a moment, the older boy had gotten up and they had been pushed back to their corners to start another round. Again and again the smaller boy laid the older one out, each time at Mayer’s feet, each time meeting his eyes with hate, or was it desperation the one time? And then it was over. The smaller boy’s arm was raised in sweaty, bloody victory. His cut had reopened, and his bandage was soaked with fresh blood, but he made sure Mayer saw him standing there, victorious.

The older boy was dragged away, and the men surrounded the younger one, slapping his back and handing him drinks and cigars. Others started collecting money from Snyder and those who had also lost their bets. Mayer smiled and spoke a little to the men on the edge of the crowd, but eventually slipped around to the exit with them without having to face the boy. Guilt was a heavy coat. He wanted nothing more than to get home and forget this ever happened, and he breathed in the cold night air with relief when he stepped outside. Picking up his cart, he stopped. His money. Snyder hadn’t finished paying him yet.

Sighing, Mayer put the cart back down looked back at the building, and smiled politely at the last of the crowd leaving the building as he worked his way back in. He walked swiftly to the office just down the hall, and raised his hand to knock when he heard voices. A voice.

“...think you’re trying to prove, boy,” Snyder growled. “Well? Answer me!” Mayer listened to the silence, jumping at the sound of a loud slap. Mayer knocked and opened the door before he thought any more about it. The boy stood in front of Snyder and they both turned, startled, as Mayer strode in. The boy looked like he was ready to cry with relief, but schooled his face into defiance when he saw who it was.

“I am sorry, Mr. Snyder,” said Mayer softly. “My pay? Please?” 

Snyder transformed his face into something like a smile. “Of course. How forgetful of me.” He went around to his desk drawer and pulled out the money, handing it to Mayer. “You made a good impression this evening. Good night.”

Mayer took the money, trying to ignore the creeping disgust rising up his throat. “Thank you. Good night.” He looked once more at the boy, who now stared straight ahead. “You fight well,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

The boy didn’t move. Mayer backed out of the room, closing the door quickly, but not before another slap echoed into the hall. Mayer fled.


	6. The Store

A Few Years Later

“Race, I found him,” Jack leaned out the window of the lodge conspiratorially. “That guy.”

Race raised his eyebrows. “Right. Him.” He took a long drag on his cigar and leaned against the side of the fire escape. “Who?”

Jack climbed out, shut the window, and crouched in front of Race, his face alight. “The guy! I figure we bring the fellas some of the good stuff, you know? It don’t even gotta be clothes that are done. It can be just the cloth, right, and the guys can use it for blankets. It’s gonna get cold soon. We gotta do something. I just about lost my fingers last time I was in there if it wasn’t for the fights to keep me warm.”

“Sure, but you get caught and you get thrown in there with them. Again. You’s old enough now Snyder’s gonna bring in some goons to knock your brains out this time. You’s a dumbass, Kelly. You wanna keep ‘em warm? I’ll get some cigars for ‘em.” Race offered Jack his cigar, which Jack waved off.

“I ain’t gonna get caught. And I ain’t afraid of no goon Snyder drags in there. I’ll win.” Jack huffed like he was insulted by Race’s doubts, even though Race was the only person in the world who knew Jack was terrified of the kinds of guys Snyder made him fight. Terrified of Snyder, period. Jack had cried for weeks in their bunk after he got out the last time, silently soaking Race’s shirt and letting Race rub his arms and back under their blanket.

“So, you gonna help?” Jack asked hopefully. “We can get more that way. And that asshole who got me arrested and then come watch me fight will get what’s coming to him, too. He come a bunch of times, every time he made something for Snyder.” Jack rubbed his scarred hands together. He’d made sure this guy had paid attention at his fights, practically throwing his opponents into his lap. But the guy never cheered, never congratulated him or handed him a drink afterwards. Probably thought Jack should lose. Probably was glad when he saw Jack’s growing collection of scars.

Race considered, then nodded. “Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow. When we’s done with the morning papes.”

“You taking or distracting?”

Jack grinned. “Taking. I want him to know it’s me. Just go light up somewhere so they gotta go over and tell you to stop, right? They don’t want you setting the whole place on fire. I’ll load up and get out the back and you just make an asshole of yourself till I’m gone. Easy.” 

Race shrugged. “Easy. I’m a good asshole. You sure you don’t wanna just go break in now when it’s dark?”

Jack shook his head. “What’d I just say? I want him to know it’s me.”

“Suit yourself. Some bull comes in, though, I don’t know you, right?”

“You’s always been a coward,” said Jack. “But okay.”

#

Jack loitered outside the tailor’s and waited for Race. He’d passed by a few times already to make sure that guy was in there, and he was. Bloodthirsty animal, coming to so many fights. Well, a lot of those guys came to a lot of fights, but none of them had let Jack get arrested too. But Race was right, Jack thought uneasily. Jack had grown somewhat—his shoulders had broadened, his voice was deeper—Snyder would probably get some thug in there who’d beat the daylights out of him no matter how hard Jack fought. And if the thug didn’t beat the daylights out of him, Snyder would. His stomach turned at the thought. He wouldn’t win all of those fights, for sure. Even when he did win, which was a lot, the glory of winning had long left, even if he did have quite the reputation among the newsies. Well, he just wouldn’t get caught anymore, is all. He’d go in this place and show this guy that he hadn’t beat Jack, and never would.

Race finally came strolling up and winked at Jack from across the street. Jack waited a beat before going in, and lingered by the coats for a moment to scope out the store. Jack knew it was kind of a nice place, but he didn’t think it was this nice. He knew he didn’t fit in; he’d be pegged as not-a-customer right away. He tugged at the rope he’d found to keep his pants up and rolled up his one sleeve that was missing the cuff. 

The boss was across the store, standing behind a man, taking measurements and comparing different types of cloth, it looked like. The assistant had come out from the back at the sound of the bell when Jack had entered, and slowed as he eyed him. Jack stared him down, and after a second, the assistant smiled at him. Jack didn’t feel much like smiling, and slowly reached for a coat.

Just as the assistant opened his mouth and started to speak, Race came in, loudly walking away from Jack and making a show of lighting up on the other side if the store, near the boss. Jack pretended to ignore him, and waited until the owner rushed over and stared berating Race to put out his cigar. Jack kept his eyes locked on the assistant and scooped up some more coats with a grin. The man stood stock still and watched Jack saunter behind the counter to grab a bolt or two of cloth. Jack waited for him to start shouting, to call the cops. Instead, the man pointed with his head for Jack to go out the back door.

Stunned, Jack paused and looked back behind the man, checking for a trap. The yelling had continued on the other side of the store, but it was too late before Jack realized it was Race yelling at him, not the owner yelling at Race. Too late, Jack turned to see what Race was yelling about, and to see Snyder striding over to him from the corner where he had been getting measured. 

Jack gripped the coats and cloth as he raced for the back exit, clawing his way over the counter. He turned for a second to see where Snyder was, and stopped, shocked to see the assistant blocking Snyder’s path.

“Move, tailor,” Snyder murmured quietly. “You don’t want to get the way of a lawful arrest. Move aside.”

The assistant stood his ground. “I’ll get the coats back. Let the boy go.” Jack’s jaw dropped, and he stood still in amazement, watching Snyder fume at being stuck.

“Fine,” said Snyder, his voice just above a whisper. “I’ll arrest you, then, for obstructing justice.” He reached for the assistant, who drew back towards Jack.

“No, please,” the assistant begged. “I have a family. I have children. They need me. I am opening my own store soon.”

“Then give me the boy,” Snyder smiled, “and we have no problem.”

Jack stumbled backwards, knowing full well Snyder had won, and dropped the coats and cloth, but not before he saw the assistant step aside to let Snyder through. Snyder lunged for Jack and pinned him against the far wall, and twisted Jack’s arm behind his back. “Red-handed, boy,” Snyder breathed gleefully. Jack grunted and struggled, but could not move. He heard the jingle of the front door as Race bolted out to the street.

The boss pushed the assistant to face him in the doorway. “You would let the boy steal? You said nothing! I have helped you! I gave you this job! I helped you find your own store next month! This is your thanks?” The assistant let forth a rush of Yiddish, nearly in tears.

“No!” the boss continued shouting. “You are fired! Leave, now!” He pointed at the door. Jack twisted around and watched the assistant leave, still pleading. Well, even if Jack got himself arrested again, at least this guy wouldn’t be coming to watch him fight. 

#

Jack shook out his arms after the cuffs had been released, and took stock of his opponent. He could beat this guy, couldn’t he? Sure. But this guy was no kid. His meaty hands, scarred torso, and bludgeoned face spoke of a hundred fights that used more than fists. The bell clanged, and Jack swallowed, circling, trying to figure out how to make any kind of impact. It didn’t matter. His opponent charged, and no matter how much Jack dodged, feinted, and tried to wear him out, Jack found himself on the ground again and again getting kicked to shit. Snyder hadn’t allowed kicking before. It didn’t take long for Jack to lose, just like Snyder had told him to. Blood poured down his face, and Jack concentrated on surviving until it was over. Jack had finally learned to listen, and the tailor’s assistant wasn’t there to see it. 


	7. The Delivery Cart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I’m tired. Tell me if you saw this coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To readers who have menstrual cycles: if you find yourself bleeding for a longer period (ha) or more heavily than normal, over days or weeks, and start to feel a little lightheaded, please see your doctor. If you don’t, you might end up in the ER with a hemoglobin level of 3.8 and need 4 units of blood so you don’t die. #talkaboutit
> 
> Also, if you can, donate blood. Blessings on those of you who can and are willing.
> 
> Now, what can I do to Jack today?

Jack lined up with the older boys, his hands clasped behind him, as Snyder began his inspection before the governor came the next day. Sweat rolled down Jack’s neck and soaked his shirt. His hair still lay damp against his forehead in the stifling evening heat, which gave no respite after the day of work.

Slowly, Snyder walked down the row of bunks, eyeing each boy to make sure they didn’t dare make eye contact. All except one looked down, a small, dark-haired boy with olive skin. Snyder stopped, and Jack watched nervously as Snyder tapped his rattan cane lightly on his own left palm.

“Looking at something?” Snyder asked slowly and softly.

Romeo shook his head, still staring at Snyder. Stupid new kid, thought Jack. He tried to catch Romeo’s attention with his eyes, but Romeo just stared, transfixed, at Snyder.

“Hands,” said Snyder. Romeo held out his hands, palms up, shaking. Jack couldn’t take the terrified look in the boy’s eyes, and broke the line. He swiftly stepped down the room and stood between Snyder and Romeo.

“Mr. Snyder, he’s new. He don’t know. Lemme teach him,” Jack begged. “He won’t do nothing like that again.” He squinted through his one good eye and held his breath as the silence ballooned through the room.

Snyder turned his gaze to Jack. “Romeo, disrespectful boys must be taught manners. Jack here knows his manners, don’t you.”

Jack felt himself start to sweat even more. His ragged shirt already bore the sweat stains of the past summer, where Snyder had started a new venture of renting the older boys out to hard labor jobs at the adult prisons. Between that and the fights, Jack was profitable to be sure.

“Yessir.”

“Hands.”

Jack held out his cracked, calloused hands and closed his eyes. Five sharp blows fell one after the other across his palms, each one a burning line of pain rivaled only by the cane marks on his back from the previous week. He pressed his heels down and strained his neck. He would not cry. He would not. He heard Snyder move on and Romeo sniffle behind him, and he gradually lowered his hands, now stiff and throbbing and on fire. Meeting his quota the next day would never happen now, and that brought consequences too. He’d do anything for a day without new pain.

#

Jack slid out the back of Roosevelt’s carriage and scrambled behind a pile of trash in a nearby alley. His breathing slowed from gasps to regular heaving to gulps to big breaths. He examined his hands, marked with five angry lashes, and tried to bend his fingers, succeeding only minimally. Race would have to spot him a few days until Jack could last the day holding papes. Race would do that, he knew. But it’d be nice if Jack could make an effort to make it easier for Race. Jack wiped his curls back and peered out into the noisy street, cluttered with pushcarts and traffic and people shouting.

A cart had stopped about a block away, with fancy lettering on the side. “Silverman’s Fruit and Vegetables,” it said. The mule pulling it stood limply in place as the delivery men jumped down from the seat and started hauling boxes into the grocery store. Jack slipped down the sidewalk, trying hard to get his fingers to move just a little more, and managed to tuck in his mostly buttonless shirt to form a pocket of sorts.

He waited for the delivery men to start their second trip, and jogged to the side of the cart. Quickly he stuffed some loose apples and a head of cabbage into his shirt. The driver didn’t even turn around, so Jack helped himself to his own apple even though the delivery men were on their way back outside. Jack swallowed hard. Not his papa. He was dirty and tired, but it was him. He saw Jack, and his eyes immediately saw Jack’s stash in his shirt, and he closed his eyes. The other delivery man pointed and shouted, and the familiar sound of a cop’s whistle sounded from in front of the cart. Jack threw his apple core just as the cop blew his whistle in the mule’s ear, but there was no way to get rid of the rest of the evidence tucked in his shirt. The cop kept coming, and Jack paused for a second. He would not get arrested, not ever again. The mule backed up, startled by the whistle, and turned the cart so that Jack could not back way from the oncoming cop.

Jack glanced back at the advancing delivery men. The one who had sent him to jail. Who had never given him a drink after Jack had won yet another fight. The one who stepped out of Snyder’s way in the tailor’s shop. Clenching his jaw, he forced his hands to grip the man’s shirt and threw him between himself and the cop, just as the delivery cart began to topple over.

Jack leapt away and ran and ran and ran. He heard men screaming and more whistles, but he didn’t dare look back.


End file.
